Home
by Lamport
Summary: Daryl has lived in a lot of places in his 45 years, but some places mean more than others. Some introspection and a motorcycle. Post series ASZ.


AN: Written for the anniversary challenge over at Nine Lives. Rated M for Daryl's big mouth and allusions to sexy times.

Daryl has lived in a lot of places in his 45 years. The only place he ever considered something close to a home was burnt to the ground, his mother with it. After that his old man moved him and Merle into a shitty apartment block full of crack heads and screaming neighbours. They got evicted and moved on to the next dump, with a ceiling tile above his bunk bed that leaked rusty water onto his face when it rained. Then there was the foster home, barely more than a bed in some asshole's basement – not that he remembers much from that year other than Merle busting a window with a baseball bat and breaking him out. In his twenties and thirties it was the trailer parks and throwing their shit in garbage bags in the back of the truck, high-tailing it before the landlord came with his enforcers to collect the rent they couldn't pay.

He never got to take much with him other than the clothes on his back and the Zippo Merle gave him for his 25th birthday that he keeps in his pocket. So it surprised him to see how much shit everyone seemed to want around them when life was relatively predictable at the prison. One day everything was dank and covered in walker brains, and the next people were putting up curtains and covering the walls with pictures and beds with extra pillows. Michonne had that ugly ass cat statue; Beth had her mirrors and writing desk. Hell, even that old biddy, Rosemary McCloud, had a dresser with drawers filled with scarves and old bottles of perfume. He liked that Carol really never went in for that crap. Her cell was like his own: clean and functional, with very little extra. No sense getting cozy when everything could go to hell in a second.

When they made it to Alexandria by the skin of their teeth, he was more certain than ever that it was foolish to think of their accommodations as anything but temporary. So it was only natural that he was skeptical when Rick suggested that he and Carol move in to a little house at the edge of the safe zone – permanently. They were the only ones left of their rag-tag group who hadn't claimed a house. It was a new build, meant to reduce the congestion in the provisional boarding rooms that all new comers stayed in. He hadn't thought much of the little A-frame, despite the little skip in Carol's step when she walked through the door for the first time. It was simple, like them; kitchen, bathroom and living room on the main floor, screened in porch in the back, bedroom up in the loft.

They had resisted bringing too many things into the house at first. For months all they had were weapons, some blankets on a mattress, and packs ready by the back door in case they had to leave in a hurry. They didn't want for anything – spending a good deal of that first sweaty summer tangled up in their bed sheets, making up for lost time. It's astounding to him, even now, the variety of love they can make; sweet and slow, hot and fast, and everything in between. Every morning that summer he'd wake up to the sound of birds outside, and Carol curled up beside him and think he was still dreaming.

In the fall he noticed her wincing in the morning when she swung her legs out of bed and put her feet down on the cold plywood floor. The next run he went on he made a point of bringing back a narrow striped rug for her side of the bedroom. He waited until she was sleeping before laying it out on the floor. The next morning he lay still facing the wall, unable to keep a grin from spreading across his face as she put her feet down and chuckled in delight.

"Thank you, Pookie."

She climbed back into bed, and leaned over to kiss his shoulder. He couldn't quite bring himself to say "you're welcome," so he settled on hauling her back on the mattress to kiss her some more.

She liked that rug so damn much (and he liked making her so happy over such a stupid little thing), that he went back and got another one for bathroom and a large red one, for the main room.

Rugs had led to more furniture; a little wooden pedestal table, just big enough for the both of them, for the kitchen. The chairs squeak something awful, and don't match, but they are sturdy enough and comfortable. He likes having the freedom not to have to take all their meals at the crowded communal cafeteria - too many damn people. They play cards on it sometimes, by the light of the wood stove and a few candles. She's a poker shark, but says the most ridiculously humble things to try and make light of it ("Really? Does a pair of aces beat a pair of Jacks? Must be beginner's luck.").

Sitting at the table on a bright spring morning playing with his lighter, he waits on the kettle to boil so he can make a pot of black tea for breakfast. It's a routine they've adopted, just like making the bed together, and doing the dishes every evening, hip to hip (even though it only takes a few minutes since they don't have more than two of anything; two toothbrushes in the bathroom, two cups on hooks above the sink, two pairs of boots beside the door. Simple).

His eyes flit to the main room and rest on the small brown couch against the far wall ("the _love_ seat" – she'd teased when he brought it in with Glenn's help). They'd scavenged it from a house a few miles out. Between wet weather, dilapidated buildings, and walker guts, it was damn near impossible to find a stick of furniture worth keeping these days that didn't smell like mold and death. He'd spent a few nights sleeping on it in the early days, when they still didn't know how to do this whole relationship thing.

Months ago he volunteered for a risky run that would take him five days out from the safe zone, and got pissed at her for insisting on going too. Called her out in front of the others at the council meeting and embarrassed them both. His emotions were running so high he couldn't even remember what he shouted at her – just that her blue eyes cut into him, and her voice was steel, but barely above a whisper when she told him to "drop it." That night he was too stubborn and angry (mostly with himself) to climb up to the loft and into bed. She was working a shift in the infirmary the following day, and he made sure to clear out before she got back, silently bedding down on the couch after spending hours hunting alone. Everything was fucked up, and as usual he had no one to blame but himself.

She had come down early the next morning and silently passed him a cup of instant coffee; a truce. His neck hurt like a bitch, so he looked down at the chipped cup in his hands, and beyond to her delicate feet, white and small against the red carpet. He wanted to keep staring at them, remember what they looked like before he had to leave.

"I'll get my stuff out of here later."

"Is that what you want?" she said from above, her voice so utterly neutral it broke his heart.

"No."

She let out a shaky sigh then, and dropped to her knees in front of him, laying her hands over his on the cup. Her eyes were red rimmed from crying – God, he had felt like a piece of shit – but she gave him a sad little smile.

"Good. I don't want that either."

Hours later, when the coffee had gone stone cold and neglected on the floor, and they were both breathless and cuddled up together, he thought about how much better the old couch was for making up than it was for sleeping on.

It wasn't the last time he fucked up (like the time he brought her a bunch of yellow goldenrod flowers in an uncharacteristic attempt at being romantic) but at least he knew, deep down, that she'd always forgive his sorry ass.

In the corner, closer to the woodstove, is the armchair; nearly as big as the damn couch. Sasha gave it to them when she moved in with her new man, Jim, last winter. It's Carol's favourite place to sit in the evenings, with a book or her knitting. Even now a dog-eared copy of a field guide to edible plants is laying face-down on the arm. Sometimes she reads to him after a long day while he sits at her feet, cleaning his crossbow or sharpening their knives. They've collected so many books he's thinking about building another shelf to hold them all. The first one he built houses not only books but odds and ends they've picked up from the road – pieces of jasper, eagle feathers, the talons from a hawk.

It hits him then when the kettle starts singing on the wood stove that all this stuff (the rugs, the couch, the books) is no longer just stuff to him – it's all part of their home. And just like falling in love, he's not sure exactly when that happened.

The back stair creaks, third step from the top, and he moves to fill the stained tea pot before Carol can catch him daydreaming. It's their day off, so he's not surprised to see her clad only in sweatpants and his button-down flannel shirt.

"Morning," she yawns, touching his elbow briefly in greeting before sitting down at the table.

"Mornin."

There's a chill in the air, causing the steam to rise up from their cups in thick curls, but the sun shining outside promises a warm day ahead. They sip tea in comfortable silence. He can't take his eyes off her sitting in their kitchen. There's a crease on her cheek from the pillowcase. Her silver hair catches the light from the window over the sink and brightens the room. Seeing her in his shirt stirs something in him – something possessive.

"What?" She smiles, eyes glinting with mischief.

"Nothin."

She grabs the last apple from the bowl in the middle of the table and takes a bite before passing it to him. He does the same, pressing his lips to the skin where her teeth were seconds before.

"You going to that thing today?" He asks with his mouth full. She waits until she's chewed and swallowed before answering; always so much more polite than him.

"You mean the memorial service?"

"Yeah."

She looks down at her hands for a long beat. He can see her eyes turning inward. It kills him a little, how she can pull away from him sometimes without ever leaving his side. He feels stupid for asking about it and ruining a perfectly peaceful morning. She hadn't wanted to go last year – he doubts much has changed. He'd gone by himself, mostly out of curiosity, standing at the back of the library that served as their gathering place (and Father Gabriel's church on Sundays) while the council members read names of those they had lost since the Turn. It was a lengthy list that only got longer ever year, and took the better part of the day to get through, with a few breaks for the kids to recite poems or sing _Amazing_ _Grace_.

This year marked the 7th anniversary. Seven years. He'd pissed away so many more than that in his life before. Now every day feels more important than the last.

"I don't think so," she says carefully, stealing a glance at him when she adds, "Unless you want to go."

"Don't wanna do nothin _you_ don't wanna do," he says, taking another bite and handing back the apple. She turns it in her hands absently.

"That's not really an answer."

He shrugs and takes a gulp of tea that scalds his tongue, wishing he could go back to the moment before he opened his big mouth.

"I just don't see the point. I mean, I don't need to hear someone who didn't even know her say Sophia's name – or Lori's, or Mika's, or Beth's…"

She gives up trying to finish her thought - just takes another bite out of the apple and chews quietly.

"I get it."

She steals another glance at him over the lip of her cup, looking at him with soft blue eyes, like he just gave her a gift.

"Do you think anyone will notice if we're not there? Is it…disrespectful?"

She worries about what the others will think. She always worries about everyone else. He, on the other hand–

"Fuck 'em."

"Daryl!" She gives his leg a little nudge with her knee under the table. "I'm being serious."

"Me too. Who gives a fuck what they think?"

She doesn't answer, but he can see her thinking on his words, chewing on her lip. It's no good – he wants to do more to put her at ease. Suddenly an idea forms.

"Tell you what - How 'bout you get dressed and meet me at the West gate."

"What's at the West gate?"

"You'll see. Bring your jacket."

He gets up then, chair squeaking, and plants a quick kiss on her head before grabbing an empty canvas bag from under the sink and heading out the back door.

She finishes her tea alone, thinking about what he said, before placing their empty cups in the sink and climbing back upstairs to get dressed. He was so eager to leave they didn't make up the bed. It would be so much easier if she didn't live in a constant state of guilt. She feels guilty for this life she's built for herself with Daryl – a life she's fought hard to win, but paid dearly for. She feels guilty that her happiness in the past few years has eclipsed mourning for her daughters. It just seems wrong somehow to have ended up here when they lie in the ground.

On her way to the gate she sees Rick and Michonne, dressed in black like everyone else, and waves to them from a distance. Carl is close by, leading Judith into the library by the hand, carefully maneuvering her through the crowd. He's as tall and broad as his father now, and Judy is Lori all over again; same long brown hair and deep set eyes. Every time she sees them she wonders how Sophia would look now had she survived. She would have been beautiful.

It seems that all of Alexandria has turned out for the service – leaving only a skeleton crew on the wall and in the infirmary. The thought of their vulnerability unsettles her. It would take nothing at all to torch the library while everyone was in it; seal the doors and light a fire, listen to their screams echoing around the out buildings. She shakes her head abruptly, and takes a deep breath, trying to free herself from the image of burning bodies that comes unbidden to her mind.

She turns the corner, and there he is, leaning against the main gate with the canvas bag at his side chewing on a thumbnail. Surprisingly he doesn't have any extra weapons on him but the knife at his belt. When he sees her he pushes off the gate and smiles, just for her. His presence banishes all the black thoughts that plague her, and she finds herself smiling back.

"You ready to go?"

"Yeah."

He puts his thumb and middle finger in his mouth, whistling loudly up to Betty, the sniper on duty. He tried to teach her this particular trick one afternoon on their porch, but she never got the hang of it. He even tried putting his own fingers in her mouth to help before they gave up, laughing.

Betty opens the gate and waves at them before writing their names down on a clipboard attached to the wall. "Y'all be back before dark!"

By this time her curiosity is more than peaked. "Where are we going?"

He smirks and walks at a faster pace towards their make-shift garage, forcing her to half-jog behind him to keep up. Most of the running vehicles are kept inside the wall, but they keep a few on the outside to strip for parts. As far as she knows there's nothing in this place but scrap.

"Wait here," he instructs, disappearing through the corrugated side door and into the dark.

A few seconds later she hears the unmistakable sound of a motorcycle engine. Sure enough, Daryl emerges on the back of a bike looking like he won the damn lottery. It doesn't look like any bike she's ever seen – like a mash-up of random parts with thick welds across the body. She can see a Harley Davidson logo on the fender, but the frame looks like a Triumph.

"Where'd it come from?" she shouts at him over the motor.

"Around," he says with a wry grin. "Hop on."

He moves his body as far back on the seat as possible while still keeping one hand on the brake. She looks at him, puzzled.

"Move up! You're hogging the seat."

He shakes his head once, and his smile spreads so wide she can actually see his teeth. It takes ten years off his face. "You're drivin'."

She looks at him skeptically, but he just revs the engine and raises an eyebrow. She's never driven a motorcycle before, and once again her thoughts drift to darker places. He senses her thoughts before she can put a voice to them.

"You ain't scared are ya?"

If she is, she isn't going to give him the satisfaction of saying so. Her heart starts to pound in her ears as loud as the engine. She trusts him. It's thrilling.

"No."

"Well, come on. We ain't got all day."

She purses her lips and gives him a pointed look, resisting the urge to correct him. He shakes his head, hair falling over his eyes.

Getting onto the bike is slightly awkward as she maneuvers in front of him, balancing and hopping on one foot so she can thread her other foot between his outstretched arm and the bike. As soon as she's seated comfortably, feeling the suspension on the tires take her added weight, she feels him scoot closer. His thighs close securely around her hips. The warmth rolling from his body across her back combats the chilly air. As she shifts to reach the foot rest she presses back with her hips into him, wiggling a little more than necessary.

"Stop," he growls in her ear.

The heat from his breath and the vibration of the engine beneath them is enough to bring a flush to her face. She takes a deep inhale and replaces his hand on the brake with her own – seizing the handle bars with more confidence than she really feels. His arms snake around her waist, anchoring her in place.

"So how do I drive this thing?"

"It's in neutral. Kick 'er down to first – just once." He taps her left foot with his, showing her where the gear shift sits, just beyond her boot. She pushes down with her toe until she hears the sound of the engine change.

"Let up slow on the clutch – on your left. No – the other left."

She nudges his ribs with her elbow. _Smartass_.

"I got us balanced – Now give a little twist on the throttle."

He walks the bike forward slowly, gaining momentum before she gives it some gas. Suddenly the bike lurches forward like a bucking bull. Daryl's arms tighten quickly around her before he puts his foot on the rear brake.

"Easy there, Evil Knievel! I said a _little_ twist. Try again."

She does, and soon they're doing big loops around the grassy field in front of the garage without his constant instruction. She loves learning new things from him. Daryl is a patient teacher, and believes in her abilities so strongly that she believes in them too.

His body relaxes as the lesson goes on; his voice steady and sure, coaxing her to turn the bike onto the open road. He's enjoying this, and that makes her enjoy it too.

The paved roads around Alexandria are clear of debris and walkers, and for a brief moment she can almost believe that the Turn didn't happen. The sky is bright and clear, and the cool air rushes through her hair as they pass fields and forest. Daryl's grip loosens on her hips, so he can raise his arm to point her in the right direction. They crest a hill, and all of a sudden she can see the road stretch flat out in front of them for miles. He brings his mouth to her ear again, shouting over the wind and the motor.

"Open 'er up! Let's see what she can do."

She twists the throttle and shifts gears with a confident kick before the bike rapidly picks up speed. The speedometer climbs higher – 70 mph. Daryl squeezes her waist with his hands and her heart skips a beat.

75 mph. They are barreling down the pavement now, free and clear. For the first time it occurs to her that they don't even have helmets. They are using precious fuel that they'll need for something vital later. This is stupid.

80 mph. Something is building in her. Her breath catches in her throat. Eyes squinting into the rushing air. They are playing on the knife's edge. One small waver in her arms and they could be dead, but strangely, she's not afraid. They are not just surviving, they are _living_. She hears a sharp, joyful shout piercing the air, and realizes that it's coming from her.

Behind her Daryl lets out a whoop of his own, before dissolving into laughter so genuine and infectious she laughs too.

She slows the bike to a safer speed and wipes tears from her eyes with one hand. She feels his lips press firmly and briefly on her right shoulder above the scar she still carries from Atlanta.

"You okay?"

For some reason his simple question makes her eyes well and steals the words from her tongue, so she just nods and reaches down to squeeze his hand.

An hour or two later they park in the shade of a sprawling oak to eat the make-shift lunch Daryl hastily packed. She shakes her head at him when he fishes out the sandwiches that have fallen apart in the bag, mustard smeared on everything. He shrugs and licks his fingers clean.

They sip water from one canteen, backs leaning against the trunk, enjoying the quiet. Her ears are still buzzing from the ride, her legs are still shaky. Above them a few clouds drift by.

"Wonder what letter they're at," he says, keeping his eye on the horizon.

"I don't know. Maybe 'G'?"

She sees Hershal's bearded face- hears his low chuckle- thinks of Lori's comforting hugs and fierce protectiveness. It brings a smile to her face.

"Are you sad you missed 'D'?" she asks, turning to face him. His eyes flit across her face, reading her.

"Nah," he says firmly. "I figure Merle'd get a kick out of us riding like a bat outta hell 'stead of sitting in a fuckin _library_ listening to some jackass read his damn name."

She nods her head. Knows he's right.

"I've been thinking. I'm tired of feeling guilty."

His body tenses beside her. She can practically feel him start to panic, so she starts to speak before he can.

"I think about them every day. Sometimes I feel like I'm living the life they should have had. It doesn't seem right that we're still here. That we get to be happy."

"We been through this –"

"I know. Let me finish." She smiles at him, taking his hand in hers and gripping tightly. "I figured something out today – something I always knew, but never really felt so strong before…"

She struggles to find the words, but he doesn't try to offer any of his own.

"Maybe all we can do is live _for_ them – take everything in while we're still here so that one day, if we ever meet again, we can share it with them."

He nods quietly, and lets out a breath he's been holding. They sit in the quiet, listening to the leaves rustling above their heads.

"Do I make you happy?" he asks, his voice suddenly unsure, "'cause I fuck up a lot."

She wants to laugh, but he looks so serious, so she says softly, "What do you think?"

He smiles.

"Do I make _you_ happy? Because I fuck up too."

She thinks of all the times she's unfairly taken her frustrations out on him. How long it took to be ready to love each other. How much baggage she dropped at his feet and he carried for her.

His smile fades, and he looks at her with an intensity that draws her into the depths of his eyes, past all his facades to the very heart of him.

"I never been happier. Ever."

His frank words warm her from the inside. He grips her hand tighter.

"It's been seven years since all this shit started - since we met. That ain't something to cry about. I don't wanna keep mournin what was. I wanna honour what _is_."

She nods and gives him a watery smile, crawling closer, needing to be closer to him. He feels it too, and pulls her into a desperate embrace.

"Happy anniversary," she sighs into his shoulder.

"Happy anniversary," he replies, urging her up on her feet. "Let's go home."


End file.
